He did not sound enthused about that last one. I laughed, then remembered my plans. “I agreed to have dinner with Damarion tomorrow. I’ll stop by afterward. He should probably be in on the talk, anyway.”
Silence filled the line for a moment. “Sounds good.” But his tone said otherwise, and I rolled my eyes. He’d need to get over the way they’d first met. “What’s the plan for training tomorrow?”
“Training on the grounds and then flying over them. Ivy House will have our backs. If anything crosses the threshold of the grounds, I’ll know. Your time is your own.”
“Sounds good.” This time I wasn’t sure what his problem was. I’d expected a thank you for not wasting his time. I could have asked, but I was also too tired for curiosity. “See you at the bar,” he added. “If that doesn’t work out…I’ll…come there.”
I frowned, looking over the grounds. “Why wouldn’t it work out?”
“Who knows. Night.”
“O-kay, good—” But he’d already hung up.
I shook my head and placed the phone on the table, letting my mind drift for a moment, ending on a handsome face and a nice pair of eyes. The memory didn’t linger, though. Almost immediately, the feeling of falling helplessly rattled my nerves.
I had to learn to fly. I also had to harness this magic.
A handsome face and nice body aside, I sure hoped Damarion had been right. I hoped he had some sort of key to unlock what was inside of me. My future depended on it.
14
Here I was again, staring at the woman in the mirror, this time in a slinky navy-blue number with a fun shimmer. It didn’t squeeze me like the last dress, but instead hugged my curves and draped over my chest, not revealing too much of any one thing or making my body shape too obvious. It was modest, but in an alluring way that sent the imagination under all those drapes and folds. Truth be told, I was still getting used to looking like this again.
“Own your space. Grab life by the balls.”
I let out a slow breath, eyeing my makeup and hair, and reached for a sweater. Then hesitated.
I was going to be with a magical guy this time, so I didn’t have to pretend I felt the chill. I didn’t have to pretend about anything, actually. He knew all the magic and magic-adjacent things I would have needed to hide from a Dick. In fact, he’d spent much of the day helping me train.
It had been kind of exciting…and fun. Instead of standing around, waiting for Edgar to translate a sticky bit of magical instruction that no one really understood, Damarion had attacked me in gargoyle form, moving very slowly and exaggerating all his strikes, fully allowing me to smack and hit him with any weapons at my disposal. With Mr. Tom standing behind me, rooting me on, I used weapon after weapon, dodging blows, working in close, and smacking him with Ron the bludgeon or Carl the war hammer. As I did so, I felt flutters and fire radiating from my middle, shooting out in fits and starts, bursts of potent magic that blasted the sky or raked across Damarion’s middle, leaving angry red gashes. He’d taken it all, although he’d backhanded me a few times on reflex. Or, at least, I assumed it was reflex—those magic attacks had clearly hurt.
“You need to know that is coming, miss,” Mr. Tom had shouted multiple times, disappointment plain in his voice as Ulric helped me up. “You need to develop some reflexes. Rolling across the grass like a weed in the wind is embarrassing for you. Get up and go at him again!”
“Or hell, just duck,” Ulric had said, laughing. “Now, go give him hell. Make him bleed.”
“Welcome to your new life, Jessie,” I’d muttered, squaring off with the enormous, lethal gargoyle yet again. “Anytime, Edgar. We can start the magical lesson anytime.”
“The magical lesson has already begun,” Edgar had replied, not looking up from the large book, his long, bony finger moving across the page. “Damarion is clearly a great instructor. You’ve made more progress today than you have since we started. But we don’t want you covered in bruises for tonight—the non-magical people will think you’re a victim of domestic violence.”
“I am a victim of domestic violence,” I’d grumbled.
“You’ve barely scratched him, Jacinta,” Niamh had yelled from the sidelines, her fists balled and her desire to join the fight evident. “You have a fecking war hammer, girl. Use it!”
Back to the present, standing in front of the mirror, I turned to look for those bruises. Just like the one across my cheek, where I’d thwapped a tree with my face, they were all gone, the only traces left in my memory.
In comparison to Damarion, I’d gotten off easy. That poor guy had been smashed with very heavy battle weapons, poked with a spear, blasted across a clearing, tossed into the sky, and the torture had only worsened once Edgar got his act together with the book—Damarion had been slammed with solid air, gouged with invisible claws, and forced back into his human form, which had left him curled up and panting, waiting to heal.
I’d felt horrible, running to his side and crouching down to put a hand on his large shoulder, asking if he needed ice, or maybe a tourniquet. Everyone else had clapped. The man was a saint.
“Here we go. Number three.” I headed downstairs with a wrap draped across my shoulders. I couldn’t go out with nothing at all, or the non-magical people in the town would ask questions.
I’d already decided that if this date didn’t go well, that was it for a while. This whole process was for the birds—so much time and preparation went into it, especially online dating, and for what? It was usually a total letdown, or in the case of Gary, an actual horror show. The pressure of finding “the perfect match” was messing with my head, even though I wasn’t in the market for anything serious. It was all just a lot of hassle.
A long, low whistle dragged my attention down the hall. Ulric walked toward me, an appreciative smile on his face.
“You look a picture. Wow.” He bowed deeply as he reached me. “Gorgeous, milady. You’ll have kings and princes fawning all over you.”
“Who are these kings and princes, anyway?” I took his outstretched arm as we reached the stairs. “There aren’t many of them around anymore. I think all the royal men in the modern world are married and/or don’t speak English.”
“Magical kings and princes. They only hold titles in the magical world, but most of them have extensive companies and holdings in the non-magical world. They are kings of their domains in magical society, and kings of capitalism in the non-magical world. A good chunk of the filthy rich people of the world are magical royalty.”
I lifted my eyebrows as we reached the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t feel Damarion in the house or on the grounds. I’d be really put out if he’d decided to cancel and hadn’t mentioned it. It would be ten times worse than the run-of-the-mill version of getting stood up.
“That’s…interesting,” I said as Mr. Tom met us in the foyer. His tux was freshly pressed, his chin raised, his air important, and a white towel was draped across his bent forearm. He looked like a caricature of a butler instead of an actual butler, especially with his “cape.”
“Miss, if you’ll please wait in the sitting room, Mr. Stavish will be with you directly.” Mr. Tom gestured to the doorway.
“Mr. Stavish—”
“Damarion.” Ulric led me that way. “It’s lame to pick up a girl for a date in the hallway. He has to come to the door. That’s part of the whole process.”
“So he’s waiting out there on the sidewalk?”
“No.” He left me standing at one of the chairs, stepped around a random doily that Mr. Tom had clearly missed, and took a chair on the other side of a small table. He didn’t offer any more information.
“Okay, then.”
Mr. Tom entered with a tray holding two glasses of wine as I felt Damarion’s feet touch down on Ivy House’s property. Mr. Tom stopped, about-faced, and left the room with the tray.
“Wait, but…” It was useless calling after him.
“He’s an odd one, isn’t he?” Ulric whispered.
“You’re just now realizing that?”
Damarion used slow and purposeful steps up the walkway until he stopped at the front door. The knock was light and subtle, the knock of someone who’d clearly known I would feel him coming.
“That’s my cue.” I stood as Mr. Tom passed the sitting room, headed toward the front door. When he saw me, he stopped, back-pedaled, and pointed at me.
“You are to remain seated until I come for you.”
“This has gotten out of hand,” I muttered, doing as I was told. Only then did he continue to the door. “I’m a forty-year-old woman. The need for all the dramatics got old twenty years ago.”
Ulric whistled. “Jaded much?”
“I’m still newly divorced. Yes, jaded is a good term.”
He grimaced. “Probably should’ve given Damarion a heads-up.”
The door swung open, and I heard Mr. Tom’s grandiose tone but couldn’t make out his words.
“So…” Ulric rested an ankle over a knee and leaned back. “Why do you call him Mr. Tom, and the puca calls him Earl?”
They’d all apparently encountered pucas before, or at least knew of them. I still hadn’t had a spare moment to do any research on Niamh’s kind. Given I’d seen her in action, I had a good idea of what the description would say. I just wanted to see if being cranky and drinking like a fish were normal traits, or her specific flare.
“His name is actually Earl. When he met me, he…changed it—it’s a long story. Just roll with it. There is more weird to come.”
Mr. Tom filled the doorway, the wine gone and his posture indicating he was at his most pompous. “Miss Evens, if you please.” He put out his hand. “Your guest awaits.”
“Well…” I moved to stand but was beaten to it by Ulric, who then helped me up as though I were fragile. The last thing I needed was a younger guy, in his early thirties, helping me around like I was geriatric. “Thanks,” I murmured, hoping it was the dress and heels he was responding to instead of the age.